Bound by the Recesses of the Heart
by Shadowdragon1317
Summary: The soul of You-Know-Who's innocence is ultimately believed to have never existed. But it's young, wistful, kind, and trapped behind layers of hatred. When the Killing Curse rebounded, this small soul of childhood innocence became forever linked to Harry Potter, the One who Should be Dead. Can Harry begin to contemplate to end Voldemort when his younger self is his closest friend?


**My first Harry Potter story! Now is when my writing gets serious, my friends:) ****I hope that I do well for this story, as I love writing it! Before I begin, I'd love to thank my amazingly wonderful beta/friend TheSummerNightingale! She's helped so much!**

**Now before I begin, I'll state that the way souls work in this story is that they grow older with the body until some great change warps the soul and partially rips it. Then a different kind of soul takes the place of the previous one, while the former dominant personality is locked away. One person we all despise in this fandom has split their soul, but not in the way he really expected. **

**Now begins the journey. Enjoy!**

A lonely place at the prepiece of endless darkness. He belonged there, he supposed. A forgotten portion of innocence that everyone believed never existed. It made the little boy sigh. He was so dreadfully lonely when the others had left. Each screech of pain when they were torn from here, split into tiny fragments of his former self so that they could never become whole again. A fate worse than the looming presence of death he had grown to despise, yet it was the only thing he feared.

Yet one thing kept the little boy hopeful. He heard the tales from _Beedle the Bard_. The Three Brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus, were the ones the black haired youth admired for a long time. The power Antioch sought with the Elder Wand was what he believed he wanted, but truly, the boy wanted to live. That was where he remembered Ignotus. The Third Brother was wise, avoiding Death until he'd no longer been afraid of him. Yet that ordinary boy, who truly was extraordinary, knew he would always be afraid.

Black dogs, crows, ravens, anything involving signs of imminent demise were avoided. Charms he made from school spells were woven around a necklace the boy kept around his neck. Knowledge from previous experiences with Divination was exceedingly helpful. So the little boy, scarcely seven, started healing the hole of insanity that fear had dug within his heart. But he knew fear's Dementor-like hold; they kept growing larger. The hole began to become more of a pit, swallowing him whole. New fears arose like phoenixes, replacing the old contorted monsters of emotion. The fear of being forgotten, of hatred, of ignorance, of stupidity. The list began to elongate. Soon it came to be that the boy learned the truth. He feared terror itself. He was frightened of the unknown milestones that would soon come to pass. Death being the largest loomed over him, standing over him while cloaked in a shadow.

That was when he changed.

Innocence was hidden, and the darker sadistic personality began to root itself. He wanted others to experience that same fear that held him prisoner. Then deliver the agony and suffering to them. He started at first with the mice and rats that infested his dorm in Slytherin. Their squeaks of terror corresponded with the desire to see their chests to stop lifting. So after stabbing them through with a quill, he saw their eyes turn unfocused, milky white, staring at something no one else could see. Then he did something he never thought he would. He laughed. He saw the helpless creature die and he felt giddy to be giving his fear to something else. To die for it so viciously, was beautiful in itself. That was the reasoning of why the chuckle had escaped from his snake-like lips.

Unspeakable pain blossomed in his chest. At first he thought it to be something horrific, a curse. Then it rose to such a crescendo... and after it stopped after the little boy opened his eyes after the pain ebbed away. That's when the little boy came to reside in the desolate edge of darkness. He never left, as there was no place to exit from. He'd never been able to glimpse the world through his own eyes again, only through hazy glimpses shown through another's mind and perspective. But even then he'd have company. The sadistic child, the fearful youth, the handsome teen who no one suspected was Dark, and all of the murderers. Yet all were taken forcibly, and again, the little boy was alone.

He didn't mind much. He was used to solitude; the orphanage had isolated him from his peers since he was born. He'd been the loner, the one who enjoyed the quiet whenever it came in the fleeting, abrupt way it does. The other children were ignorant, stupid, and power-hungry. Everywhere, he had followers, no friends. And the boy liked it that way. But as time grew on however, the wind had shifted. A companion was suddenly desirable, then even wished for. So the boy contented himself to wait. If his wishing wasn't enough, he had just better be content with being alone. The youth with sleek dark hair knew that the previous incarcerates in this magic casement would never be able to return, and the little boy knew he was to be the last one to reside in this magical inescapable prison.

* * *

Years later, he'd drifted off to a content half-sleep when a woman's scream shook him. Cautiously, one of his eyes warily opened to quickly scan his prison. Glancing at the edge of that never-ending blackness, the small child with hair the color of raven feathers contentedly slept partially for a moment before an explosion tore through the land that had kept him for years. When finally a resounding pain gripped his body, he knew that something was amiss. The cleft was crumbling into smoky dust off to the side. The ground disappeared from under his feet. The entire place of solitude and loneliness just seemed to collapse upon itself, dragging its lone occupant within its murky depths that awaited it below.

He fell until he was surrounded by the inky blackness that had watched him from below the cliff. It pryed open his mouth with fat writing tentacles. Each one tried to pull him in further, deeper into the suffocating shadows. There was so many thoughts that were so revolting and disgusting. How to make a Muggle suffer the brink of death, things to make people scream, to be the embodiment of fear, to conquer Death and make him afraid. Then the emotions leaked in, pulling the little boy into millions of emotions. Fear, it chilled him to the bone, shivering without ever stopping. Hopelessness, the desire to end everything and for everything to just stop, to wait for everything to be alright although it never will. Despair, linked hand and hand with Death, and how many had brought about Death to families that were innocent in everything but blood.

Then came the hatred. It consumed him the way a log feeds a fire. Burning thoughts of revenge and rage were seared on what felt like the little boy's flesh. Dirty words like _mudblood, blood traitor_, and _Muggle_ were everywhere. Blood seeped from his fingers and he enjoyed it. Everything was consumed in his tirade against anything unpure with wizard kind. Mere numbers of that raw emotion were everywhere. There was so much... so much war and death... and it made his heartbeat sound akin to the beating of a drum, pounding frantically against his tiny chest. The boy heard himself scream, but didn't know he was doing it. Desperate to escape the hatred, his fingers became claws as he groped for something to pull himself out of the blackness. His head broke loose, and he roared as he fought to free the rest of his small, writhing, seven year old body until the tendrils snapped.

Spinning mercilessly, the boy was thrown upward, in the opposite of before, while trying desperately to find steady ground. When light erupted painfully above him, that was when he stood from his fetal position on the dusty floor. Wiping the dust and grime from his eyes, the little boy saw a nursery in front of him. Toys were stacked neatly in the corner, stuffed animals and toy broomsticks. The room was painted a light blue, with animals painted white that were seen moving across the walls. Sort of like guardians. There was some sort of man-wolf, a stag, a doe, a dog, and a small animal that looked like it was scorched off the paint. But turning toward the front, he realized the door had been blown away in some sort of explosion. The twinkling lights in the hallway ahead flickered uneasily, and a lamp to the side of the young seven year old fell to startle him out of his secluded trance.

Crying of an infant made the boy turn. He saw what looked to be a reflection of himself at that age. Behind the protective white bars of his crib, the infant had dark hair, like a raven, and light green eyes that seemed to glow with the tears he was shedding. But one mark was etching itself across the baby's forehead. A deep cut in the shape of a bolt of lightning bled little. But the infant didn't seem to be wailing for his injury. He seemed to be crying in sadness. The seven year old was peering to the sides, as he expected to see the baby's parents to come rushing up to check on the infant.

The little boy looked down and started to feel sick.

A woman, young and pretty, was lying on ruined remains of the door that had been blasted open. Her eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. She had fallen in front of the crib, suggesting that she'd been protecting him from something. The infant looked down at his mother, and began to cry louder.

That was when the little boy found himself not able to breathe. Air was deprived of him, and every feeble breath he took seemed to be made of hemlock. The youth took to clutching at his throat. He fell with an inexorable wheeze that was desperate for oxygen to reach his lungs. His arms were flailing madly, hitting random objects and sent others flying. His ribcage was burning, screaming for the precious air that it had been so vilely deprived. The baby cried even louder for his mother and father. His screams were the loudest that the youth with the sleek black hair had ever heard. Compulsive actions were made before his mind recovered. His hand, small itself, grabbed the white wooden bars of the crib. He didn't know exactly what he was doing. But he needed to comfort the child. It might lift this unspeakable thing not letting him breathe. Guilt? He didn't know.

From the very moment his palm grazed the orphan's own, an opening in his airways left him gulping the air greedily, like it would suddenly vanish from him again. But then his hand slipped from the infant's, and the air turned poisonous once again. Now he grasped the hand of the baby to keep his windpipes open and free.

The youth clutched his throat with his unoccupied hand to try to relieve the painful numbness that ached there from the oxygen taking anomaly that only faded when he held this scarred infant's tiny fist. Glancing at this baby, he knew that they would have a connection, bonded as they were alive. So the boy blinked and suddenly he was beside the infant, in size and stature, and akin in likeness. Yet the former seven-year old knew that no one could see him, at least until it was time to reveal himself.

The baby who was scarred had placed his hands on the white bars and wailed when a man cloaked in black fluttered in. His black robes were making him appear like a raven. This mysterious man with long greasy hair saw the infant's mother spread eagled on the floor, and he dropped to his knees. He pulled her into his arms, sobbing, exclaiming that he was sorry, that he didn't want her to die, that he begged the Dark Lord to spare them. Then, his echoing cries of anguish matched the woman's son, and both were swept away into a wave of despair and sorrow.

Lightning flashed precariously outside, illuminating the nursery into an unholy light. Thunder boomed its sympathy with the rain spatters dripping downward on the window pane. The chill it brought was felt through the gaping hole in the side of the house that was blown away. Tears shining in the eyes of man and child were falling one at a time, in a tune that was synonymous to rain splatters. The former youth saw this, and began to feel the emotions of the true infant he was connected to.

Raw emotion, un-interfered by adults, was spilling out in the flashes of which only a child can produce. The baby was feeling unrelenting sadness, and wished for his mother to caress him with her soft words again, like _Momma loves you. You are so loved, so very loved Harry. Harry, Momma loves you._

And the youth, connected by spirit, felt and heard those words. That was when the spirit of innocence decided that this Harry needed someone to trust, and the spirit decided it would be himself.

**How did you guys enjoy the first chapter? Was it decent enough? Did I forget anything important to include? Tell me in a review, and I'll fix it:)**

**Review Question: Do you believe Harry can complete his destiny with this foreign entity inhabiting his soul?**

**Dragon Out!**


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